Since their first meeting he had seen her several times, and had even been into her house, when she had given him the wine for his father, and when he had taken back the empty flask.  Once, as she was filling the bottle which he held, out of the large jar, her white fingers had touched his, and her enquiry whether he were afraid of her, or if not, why his hands which looked so strong should tremble so violently, dwelt still in his mind.  The nearer he approached Petrus’s house the more vehemently his heart beat; he stood still in front of the gate-way, to take breath, and to collect himself a little, for he felt that, agitated as he was, he would find it difficult to utter any coherent words.

At last he laid his hand on the latch and entered the yard.  The watch-dogs already knew him, and only barked once as he stepped over the threshold.

He brought a gift in his hand, and he wanted to take nothing away, and yet he appeared to himself just like a thief as he looked round, first at the main building lighted up by the moon, and then at the Gaul’s dwelling-house, which, veiled in darkness, stood up as a vague silhouette, and threw a broad dark shadow on the granite flags of the pavement, which was trodden to shining smoothness.  There was not a soul to be seen, and the reek of the roast sheep told him that Petrus and his household were assembled at supper.

“I might come inopportunely on the feasters,” said he to himself, as he threw the buck over from his left to his right shoulder, and looked up at Sirona’s window, which he knew only too well.

It was not lighted up, but a whiter and paler something appeared within its dark stone frame, and this something, attracted his gaze with an irresistible spell; it moved, and Sirona’s greyhound set up a sharp barking.

It was she—­it must be she!  Her form rose before his fancy in all its brilliant beauty, and the idea flashed through his mind that she must be alone, for he had met her husband and the old slave woman among the worshippers of Mithras on their way to the mountain.  The pious youth, who so lately had punished his flesh with the scourge to banish seductive dream-figures, had in these few days become quite another man.  He would not leave the mountain, for his father’s sake, but he was quite determined no longer to avoid the way of the world; nay, rather to seek it.  He had abandoned the care of his father to the kindly Paulus, and had wandered about among the rocks; there he had practised throwing the discus, he had hunted the wild goats and beasts of prey, and from time to time—­but always with some timidity—­he had gone down into the oasis to wander round the senator’s house, and catch a glimpse of Sirona.

Now that he knew that she was alone, he was irresistibly drawn to her.  What he desired of her, he himself could not have said; and nothing was clear to his mind beyond the wish to touch her fingers once more.